Denial is a River in Africa
by eeelastic9
Summary: Everyone thinks Sherlock and John are 'together'. John's not ready for the world to know. Fluffy drabble. T for make outs and allusions to sex. Nothing graphic.


Denial is a River in Africa 

Notes: Not beta'd or brit-picked. Any errors, please let me know!

xXx

_Not his date. I'm not gay. We're not together!_

After another ardent denial, Donovan just rolls her eyes and tosses a "whatever" over her shoulder.

Sherlock's lips draw together in a tight line. He knows this refusal is necessary to John's delicate sensibilities, but honestly, it's getting to be a bit much.

Lestrade coughs gently, and asks, "Will you—"

"Text you, yes. Need to think. Come along, John." With a flourish of his coat, Sherlock turns sharply on his heel and takes off briskly to find a taxi. As always, John is right on his heels.

Back at the flat, Sherlock yanks off his scarf and tosses it, along with his coat, onto the sofa.

"Honestly, John, you needn't be so emphatic in your denials of homosexuality. I think at this point, everyone is certain where you stand."

John tugs off his jacket and lays it next to the detective's. "Yes, well, _someone's _got to deny it, and you certainly haven't been helping."

Putting the kettle on, John leans back against the worktop, and tugs Sherlock by the hips up against him. Sherlock allows himself to be drawn down for a gentle kiss.

"But why, why do we have to deny it?" Sherlock murmurs darkly against John's lips.

John seems to freeze. "Sherlock… we've talked about this. I'm just not ready—"

John's protest is silenced by Sherlock's lips. Sherlock pulls the doctor in tightly, and begins to kiss down his jaw as soon as he feels John relax.

"What…" Kiss. "more…" Kiss. "do you need …" Kiss. "to think about?"

"Mmmf," John mumbles against Sherlock's lips and pulls away. "Bit hard to think about anything besides your _mouth_ right now," he replies, nibbling at his flatmate's lower lip.

Sherlock presses down further, deepening the kiss. John starts to reciprocate, but thinking better of it, pulls back.

"John?" Sherlock cannot hide the slight waver in his voice. He searches John's face.

A deep sigh hisses out from the doctor's lips. "Sherlock, you know why I'm not ready yet."

"No, I don't. You said you needed time to get used to _us_. It's been nine days, how are you not used to it by now?"

"Because, Sherlock, not all of us have your brilliant mind that just suddenly understands and makes everything alright. I… I've never been with a man before, and I just need time to adjust."

John reaches a hand up to cup Sherlock's face, and Sherlock nuzzles into his palm. The detective closes his eyes and exhales slowly, deeply, cherishing the rough pads of John's fingers against his cheek.

For all John's lack of observation skills, sometimes he knows exactly what Sherlock is thinking. He can almost see the doubt in the shallow lines of Sherlock's forehead.

"It's not you, Sherlock. This is for me. Will you do this for me?"

Sherlock opens his eyes again, locking his gaze with John's. "I've already died for you. If this is what you need…"

"Thank you, Sherlock." John tugs Sherlock's forehead down to his own, and closes his eyes, just breathing against his flatmate for a few moments.

The quiet peace that had settled over them is shattered only moments later, though.

Sherlock's eyes fly open, and he stands up to his full height. "John! That's it! Oh, you're brilliant! Of _course!_ Come along, John, we've a murderer to catch!"

Sherlock is already swirling about to put his coat and scarf back on, and John smiles to himself. Trust a wonderfully sentimental moment to trigger the solution to a killer's nefarious plans. But John can't deny it is part of Sherlock's allure, and soon the two are careening out of 221B, Sherlock calls a cab, and they are off to New Scotland Yard.

When the cabbie pulls up, Sherlock tosses adequate bills at the driver and, grabbing John's hand excitedly, all but drags the man from the cab. Lestrade is already outside waiting for them, hands jammed in pockets. The Detective Inspector eyes the linked hands with mild suspicion, but decides he just doesn't have time for this.

"So? Where is he?" The DI sips his coffee.

"_She _should be here any moment."

"How did you convince a murderer to walk right into a police station?"

"Well she merely arranged the hit to be placed on Rebecca. It's the girlfriend. She'll still be playing her 'supportive lover' role. I told her it was someone her boyfriend knew, could she come in and look at some pictures. I've figured out who she hired—all too easy, really—and she'll probably give him up when she comes in. Do play along, if you would."

"Amazing that that worked," Lestrade muses, taking another swig of coffee. "So how do you know it was her?"

"She was obviously jealous that Roberts still had feelings for his ex, so she tracked the woman down, preyed upon her bisexual tendencies and pretended interest. She was essentially cheating on Roberts with Rebecca, with whom he was still in love. Clearly, when the two women got closer, ah, intimately—" Sherlock's eyes darted to John's—"Sharon used her smaller stature to set up a rather easy target for her less-than-spectacular hired killer. Really, the man calls himself a sniper but he needs a twenty centimetre height difference to make a clean shot? Pathetic."

"And how was it you came to put all this together?"

"John and I—" Sherlock freezes. He grapples for something that wouldn't give them away. He doesn't care, naturally, but for _John_, he reminds himself. _John needs this. _

"Well, obviously, John is much shorter than me. I simply realized I could see clear over his head. Simple. Given the location of the shot and the access points through the windows, the two could have stood quite close but there would still be adequate space to shoot the taller person without injury to the shorter."

Shaking his head, Lestrade rubs a hand over his face. "Alright, looks like that might be our girlfriend there?"

"Splendid. I'll leave it in your _capable _hands, then, shall I?" Sherlock clears his throat. "John, I really must get back to that… experiment. At the flat. The one I needed your assistance with?"

John shoots an incredulous look at Sherlock's laughable excuse, but he is just grateful that Sherlock hasn't outed the two of them so he allows himself to be dragged back to the kerb to climb into a taxi.

"Not going to stay for the show, Freak?" Apparently Donovan has arrived.

"Charming as ever, Sally," Sherlock bites back.

John puts a firm hand on Sherlock's upper arm, and raises his eyebrows like a parent about to scold a child. "I believe you have an experiment to tend to, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scowls back at Sally, who now appears to be holding back laughter. "Got you all trained up, hasn't he, your doctor? He says stay and you say how long?"

"Sally, I really think that's enough." Lestrade warns. "Come on. Our suspect is here. Let them be."

Sherlock's mind races through all the things he would like to do to shut Sergeant Sally Donovan right up. Topping the list, of course, is just flat-out kissing John on the street, but he knows that John will not approve of that. Instead, he reaches for John's shoulders and steers him into the waiting cab.

"Be safe now, you two!" Sally jeers as she turns to walk inside with Lestrade and their unsuspecting culprit.

"For the last time, Sally: We are _not_ shagging!" John yells loudly enough to turn several heads.

As soon as the door is closed, Sherlock yanks John by the lapels over to him and proceeds to snog the life out of him.

"Oi! Gents! Save it for later. Where to?" The cabbie scowls.

"I am _so _sorry," John gasps. "221B Baker Street. Please."

Sherlock has relinquished his grip on John's jacket and is now sulking against the window on his side of the cab.

"Sherlock, mind telling me what the hell that was about?"

The detective continues scowling in silence.

"You're being childish, Sherlock."

"No, _you're_ the child here! You're so worried about what other people think of you that you not only won't admit you're in a relationship with me but you deny it over and over and over again and how the _fuck _do you think that makes me feel?"

John is stunned. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Did _Sherlock_ really just lecture _John_ about feelings?

Sherlock reaches aggressively for John, but he pulls himself back, and the cab arrives at Baker Street.

John dashes out of the cab and bolts into the flat, leaving Sherlock feeling very much deflated and somehow hating himself now, for ever putting John through this.

Sherlock is not a good person. He is selfish, he is possessive, he is not what John needs; he is not what John should want. Sickening doubt and fear and _emotion_ wash over him. What if John decides this is not working? That it isn't worth it? What if he goes back to dating those ridiculously vacant women he insisted on parading through Sherlock's life? Sherlock cannot allow that to happen.

As he makes his way up the stairs, Sherlock resolves to apologise to John. He knows that John needs time, and if that is the way he gets to have John Watson, then he will have to make do.

Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock tries to summon every ounce of remorse he may ever have felt to give John the apology he deserves.

"John?" he calls.

"In here." It sounds like John is… _in Sherlock's room?_

Draping his coat and scarf on the sofa, Sherlock slowly makes his way to his room.

He opens the door to find a completely naked John Watson reclining on his bed.

Sherlock finds that he cannot form words, much less any coherent thoughts.

"Well?" John smirks, gesturing to Sherlock's overly dressed state.

Hastily, the detective fumbles over the buttons of his shirt, and yanks his belt and trousers open. Standing in his pants and socks, Sherlock can no longer resist the stretched out army doctor and all but pounces on him, covering him in wet, noisy kisses.

John arches up into Sherlock's touches, his own lips searching for skin to caress.

"John," Sherlock breathes, reaching down awkwardly to remove his socks.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," John says in a small voice.

Sherlock is puzzled. "Why are _you_ apologising? I'm the one who—"

"I was selfish. I didn't realise how much I was hurting you, because… Well, I guess I didn't think you _could_ be hurt, and for that I am truly, truly sorry."

Sherlock's face is a mixture of happiness and hurt, a foreign expression on his face.

"Just because I don't announce my emotions to the world doesn't mean I don't have them. It's … easier. It hurts less."

John's chest is tight with the knowledge that he has hurt Sherlock. He desperately wants to erase that pain and replace it with love.

Oh_._

"I love you," John declares. Enjoying the play of surprise and sheer delight across Sherlock's sharp features, John pulls Sherlock in for a sweet, gentle yet firm kiss.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock whispers.

John rolls Sherlock underneath him, and continues lavishing kisses all over his detective.

Sherlock pulls John's lips back to his, opening his mouth to let John's tongue in when Sherlock's phone rings on the bedside table.

They freeze. It's Lestrade.

"I'll answer that," John says, his face turning devious.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, but allows John to pick up his phone.

"Lestrade?"

"John, thank God you picked up, we've got—"

"I'm afraid we can't help you right now. Bit busy."

"Busy? Sherlock's never busy unless it's for a case," Lestrade complains.

"Yeah, well, I'm about to shag his brains out, so he'll text you in a few hours."

"TOMORROW," calls Sherlock.

"Ah, make that tomorrow. Cheers, Greg."

John rings off and turns back to Sherlock. "So, how about it, then?" he says mischievously.

"'Shag my brains out?' A bit ambitious, don't you think?" Sherlock teases with a broad, honest smile. "You may have to persuade me, or I—"

John swoops down to firmly kiss Sherlock. He turns to smirk at the skull which has now taken up residence on a bookcase in the detective's room, and tells it: "Methinks he doth protest too much."

_FIN_


End file.
